He had always been a conservative man. Conservative in every way. In how he felt. In his outlook. He was conservative in dress: white, starched shirts, Brooks Brothers suits in black, necktie in a muted color. He was conservative in speech: never raised his voice; his words carefully chosen, his arguements reasonably delivered. He was moderate in every activity, and, perhaps because of this, left little impression on those whose lives he passed through. He neither drank too much nor ate too hungrily. He selected each specific part of life carefully, from the woman he married to the job he had held for close to thirty years. He was always certain, throughout his whole life, that he would some day get his due, his reward for not causing any difficulties for anyone. Even as his chest tightened and his breathing became more labored, even as he felt himself dropping to the floor, he continued to believe that there would been greater heights for him to rise to, more places to demonstrate his worth. There was, he had to admit to now, one thing that he had always hungered for, dreamt of, and aspired secretly to. It seemed unfair now that this one weakness would not be fed. His felt a wave of despair and regret. He had always wanted to drive a red car.